Americans With Critical Thinking Skills Avoid “Vaccine” as Some Mass Vax Sites Shut Down Through US

As seen at https://outline.com/UyMSry

I can only hope the same happens here in Australia. I don’t harbour much hope, but then again I am a suicidal paranoic who’s been locked down for health reasons for five years now, and those of us who are able to admit that lockdowns are a terrible, capitalistic-mindsetted control freak way to manage a pandemic are also able to acknowledge what they do to a species whose nervous systems are wired to communality, so I dunno, the reality out there might be different than the perception in my fucked-up head. (See what I did there, cult liberals? I made a distinction between my traumatised insides and the complex, interconnected, crumbling system full of people who have varied takes out there. Try it sometime).

Up is down and left is right and socialists are far right extremists and questioning the methods of the corporate beast that took over your society is some kinda treason and refusing to get the insufficiently tested c19 gene therapy modulators on a virus with a 99.4% survival rate is anti-science and on and on it goes.

I really am struggling to even want to be on this planet at the moment. And that’s as a person who believes, shakily and with big wads of disbelief thrown in, that this is humanity’s time to begin shaking off the mechanical beast it’s barely been able to acknowledge is actually under its bed (non-western countries could tell us a bit about it, as it now turns its gaze from sanctioning and couping them, and forcing them into unpayable loans, and forcing their farmers to use seeds that have been made infertile so that they are dependent on multinational corporations instead of their own seed supplies. It’s been going on for decades. And now it’s come home).

And it’s okay. Don’t feel the need to comfort me. I just wanted to write this because it makes me feel slightly more in control to be able to speak what is my reality. I know hardly anyone will read this. I understand algorithms. I understand my worth in this system. I know I don’t matter, as neither do you.

But that’s what the dying system says. And I am trying very hard to not let what it tells me about myself to not seep into my bones as truth, but to sit on my skin as unwashable shit.

I hope we all come clean.

Sesame Street Martians

By far my favourite characters on Sesame Street were the martians. The telephone sketch has always stuck in my head:

I just watched another one. I presume these were made in the 70s. I feel like it’s quite sophisticated in a way, this humour. I mean, of course their favourite music isn’t going to be ours 🙂

I’m Writing on Substack

FYI, I’ve started a newsletter on Substack, Inside/Outside, in which I attempt to render humans bigger than alienated blips on a fricken spreadsheet. (May contain traces of anarchism or even some woo-woo-ey mysticism.)

And please tell me what I already know but don’t want to yet admit, which is that the logo is too small to even be able to see what it is properly.

The Funnies

I’m watching Rage at the moment (a music video program on every weekend here in Australia). The guest programmer,  Amy Lee from Evanescence, is playing some stuff that’s getting my mull-puddled mind into a happy place. Like Learn to Fly by Foo Fighters which, if I was going to say hippy-shitted dumb stuff, would be my happy homage to the galactic peeps I hope populate our universes and communicate to us telepathically. I mean, have you ever read any of the stuff people claim is dictated through them? Whatever it is, some of it is just so wild that it’s entertaining even if you don’t believe it’s anything other than something out of the fancy of some wildly imaginative nutter’s head.

Like the Law of One, for example. Some of the descriptions in that thing are so like reading translated stuff. Like, it’ll be describing something that I think, what the hell is that even describing? I don’t know what that is, and then it turns out to be describing, like, walking down the street or something.

Good stuff to read for writers, I reckon.

So Learn to Fly. I love the sweet adorableness of that video, especially the teenage girl who gets on the plane with her guitar and gets really, really excited to see the band sitting at the front of the plane.

Amy Lee also played You Oughta Know by Alannis Morisette. i remember when that song came out. I was 24 and there was something about its rawness that made me feel a little unnerved by it at the time. The basement gimp giant trauma blob part of myself found its raw rage and combativeness a little unnerving while most of me was admiring. My love for it has only grown in the intervening 26 years. I feel like it was actually a really emotionally super sophisticated song for a 19 year old to co-write, although I think there was some pushback at the time from people who felt uncomfortable with a woman being so flagrantly undignified about her betrayal.

It’s funny how much of music is about association. Songs built on memories and layered with each listen till they build up such a richness that a song from 40 years ago becomes like an heirloom.

I think I like You Oughta Know even more now that another video has become associated with it in my head. This is the best video I’ve ever seen in the hassle your partner with music genre. In fact, it’s the only one, but surely it should breed more if other people out there have pathetically stupid senses of humour like me. I just love her so much. I love that she made this. She has made me so happy by making this video. Her partner is just so deflated at the end 🙂

What I really wanna know is if Alannis herself has seen this video. That would be such a crackup seeing someone use your song in this way as a form of gentle domestic torment 😂

Which reminds me of the funniest thing I ever saw at a movie theatre, which was the puppet sex scene in Team America: World Police. I was just about sliding off my seat when this came on, with no prior warning. Whereas you have been warned 🙂

10-Tips to Blah Blah

I once got knocked back on a submission I made to a publication in my brief time writing on Medium (I estimate I earned about $1.78 all up) .

That’s fine. Knockbacks happen all the time in the writing world and you get used to it.

What I wrote didn’t fit the publication, she said, and pointed me to the part in their submission guidelines that said they want pieces that will help writers to be better writers.

I think the most embarrassing thing about writing is when you go with an idea, and you think it’s going to be a good fit, and you write and submit it and they say no, this isn’t a good fit, and you look at the baby you love and it was all gurgly and smily and golden before but now you look at it and it’s monochrome and sick and the gurgle is a death rattle and it dies as you look at it and then you realise it wasn’t even a baby, it was an alien.

That is the most excruciating thing about writing.

My idea in my head was that this was meant to be a kind of encouragement to those writers like me who need part-time day jobs but who can’t do content writing without feeling washed in futility and despair. There are plenty of people who can, and they must look askance at oversensitive dunces like me and think, huh? So I felt like it was a valid piece.

But when I look at the publication it’s like, what was I thinking? It is full of 7 Tips To types of articles. And that’s fine, but what I wrote and those types of pieces are very different.

It’s really important for me to try to write out of some sense of holism. But I don’t know how much sense it makes. And anyway, it is a different sort of space that is harder work, I guess, than a 7 Tips piece.

I feel like what I write must be too abstract and too complex sometimes. I am constantly trying to see the whole of something but the currency of the internet is fragmented, meaningless shards, movable parts, interchangeable Ikea pieces.

I guess I just feel like me and internet 3.0 are maybe not really that good a fit.

I guess I’ll just keep working on trying to work out where I fit in. Trying to find the space where reducing myself down to fit into an hourly dollar rate doesn’t make me want to end my fucking life.

I know I’m in the minority when it comes to the kind of article that’s 10 Whatevers On How To Do Whatever. Little bite-sized pieces of boring read-it-all-2-million-times-beforeness. Things divorced from a sense of a whole. But I know that’s how we need to write for the web because we scroll on the web. Chunks. Actionable things. Blah boring things that talk about mechanics but not about how writing for the perpetrators of the status quo is a betrayal of ourselves, and this terrible industry turned writers into copywriters within a decade, and what a fucking travesty that is.

I feel frustrated because an ongoing issue for me is that the internet is full of explicit dot points and I prefer a more implicit whole from which to draw my own conclusions. And so I guess that’s what I wrote. And I thought it would fit but it turns out that it’s not pre-digested enough. Pre-digested smooth blended blah. PR chunks for the good millennial writers to meth themselves on for the next bit of hustle.

I miss the old times when there were pictures instead of shards. There is so much happening at the moment that reams will be written about it into the future. I hope they are able, when they look back from a slowly coalescing space, to know what this was like. This slow fading to grey and the lockstep that accompanied it because the people didn’t know what we walked into and we didn’t know we were each other’s.

How we’d clean forgotten, in our psychological consumer capitalist corporatocracy cubicles, that we were each other’s.

We will remember, one day again, when the chaos dims.

Photo by Umberto Shaw from Pexels

Collapse Now and Avoid the Rush

Collapse now and avoid the rush ~ John Michael Greer

I do like that pithy saying from the author, thinker and druid, John Michael Greer. Michael is of the mindset that humanity is set for neither some kind of future utopia or apocalypse – the two binaries that have been seared into the western mindset – but instead for a long, slow descent.

I have spent some time visiting in my mind what that descent might feel like to live within and by doing so I’ve given up some of my fear of the future, the fear that is so relentlessly pumped into our skulls every day by a shitty, unimaginative, young, conformist, tedious corporate media class. My fear is far more of the present. Sure, in the future there’s the distinct worry that us humans, turned via the waters in which devolved politicians and very rich people coerce us to swim, into selfish, dimwitted, unquestioning, barbarian bureaucrats who don’t know how to contextualise anything, will even then not be able to accommodate ourselves to a world much closer to the actual shape of our nervous systems, the shape of community, and instead we will all be guns blazing, shooting the shit out of each other for the last loaf of bread, or whatever.

I prefer to visit an imaginative space where the descent has made us sane in the same way that a fluorescent light being switched off after shining in your eyes for three decades straight will make you more sane. I like to imagine that the human soul, when forced to leave this utterly fucked, uncreative, alienated, nasty little shitstorm, will see the sense and the beauty and abject relief in knowing that the show they were forced to perform in is over. It’s over there, on the horizon, collapsed in on itself in a giant concrete dustball. Who gives a shit if we can’t now have 53 different pieces of cheap nastiness made by people we don’t even know in conditions we probably don’t even care about anymore when instead, we can have three different pieces of locally made whateverness that are built to last and made by your friend’s mum’s mate, and which therefore have some kind of history and shape to them. That somehow this understanding will resonate, that people will recognise this shape – the shape of a local community where we go to for our food, our work, our clothing, our reflection in the faces of people who were made for a time into enemies in our way rather than co-collaborators – is the shape not only of much of our history, but is a shape that will not ask anyone to slice off half of themselves in order to fit because it’s a shape made for itself, not for an abstract economic system or bullshit rich people ideology.

Life is a bit odd for me these days. In the midst of all the squalor that is the terrifying outside world, with its relentless lies and manipulations and creepy sense of people frozen in place, alongside all of that, I am sensing underneath a kind of renewal. Maybe I’m just projecting onto the collective my own road. The last half a decade has been a real Persephone trip for me. Health, work, sense of myself, all unravelled, the trauma of my childhood rekindled so that I unspooled off my own spindle, leaving me in a puddle on the floor. I have basically spent the past half a decade in a health-imposed lockdown, only going out for at most four hours a week but often much less. We all know how barmy that can make you, right? I feel like a creature of the deep, coming up for air, covered in giant bits of seaweed, lost to connection.

But then now, as the world has oddly taken on the shape of my own experience, the spiritual side to life that has been kinda dead for me – practised but not really felt as a pattern I live within – has sprung up into life again. My feelings coming back online a bit now I’ve finally learnt how to stop the emotional flashbacks, or at least stifle their impact. A return to the still very unfashionable sense that the world is not bits of dead matter pinned like butterflies to baseboards but is something way bigger. More alive than we thought. A sense that things are coalescing, that different layers of life experience are waiting for us to discover them. Is it just me, or are you feeling it too?

I’ve spent a lot of time in future worlds in the last year and a half. I’ve written a few short stories set in places where communities function via the people who live in them, not via politicians and experts living somewhere else. I’ve been developing, slowly, in my head an idea for a four-part TV series that begins in the radical grassroots movements that sprung up for short periods in the mid-1600s when England cut off its king’s head, and which travels forward in time to end in 2100 in – you guessed it – a local community of people who are not only existing and adapting to a Mad Max future with altered weather states, but are also, in many of teh ways that matter but are not measured, flourishing alongside altered financial, political, business states.

Then I return to this stale pile of shit and honestly, there is nothing more depressing than this dirgelike zombie march towards something unpleasant we don’t believe we have the power to stop because we have – inexplicably, insanely – lost our conception of the power we hold within each other. And so instead we lurch toward some future we won’t be able to extricate ourselves from at all easily simply because we can’t rouse ourselves either to the idea that there is a class war we desperately need to start fighting, or to the idea that if we all rose up the fight would be over.

Well, could be over, anyway. I guess there’s always the unpalatable idea that, within the reality of the class war we live in, that if the 99% rose up against the 1% that they would turn the world to blank, if push came to shove, shoot us with their giant satellite guns, melt us in place from space or whatever the fuck they may have to protect themselves that we wouldn’t know about even if they did.

I watched a movie last night where a woman who lives 600 years in the future accidentally finds herself in 2015 New York (suddenly feels like a long time ago, huh. She gets to experience what in her time is known as The Great Despair, something she’s only known academically previously (all digital communication being lost in some future catastrophe and so all the future has to go on about our present is whatever analogue fragments that lasted. The entire digital world, puffed into air, feels fitting somehow doesn’t it).

It was a cool way to explore how we are so, so, so traumatised, isolated, alienated as a species. That trauma has been a long time in the making, thousands of years, really. It’s been happening long before the powers, in their wisdom, locked us all inside our houses for months on end as a way to manage a health pandemic and which we, in our great fear of death, acceded to with hardly a whimper. This way of thinking would have been a horror to those who even lived 50 years ago, this eagerness to offset our own thinking to the biggest bunch of fucked-up pretenders we’ve have the misfortune to vote for and be stuck with. And all that with only a few straggling souls, here and there, enraged at the amount of people willing to put their heads down and acquiesce to a pus-ridden psycopathy because, as humanity as proven over and over again in its interminable childishness, we don’t want to take charge of ourselves. We want to be told what to do. Even while what we’re being told to do is increasingly Dali clock-drippingly fucking stupid and against the principles of freedom that liberals used to hold before they luvved up on the corporatocracy’s push for censorship (and even if it was only for themselves and not quite so much for the brown-skinned people in foreign countries they ).

This woman from the future hugged people with abandon. Her take on living spaces, food, etc was communal. She was sane and she seemed so cutely naive. She creeped out the people around her who were shut down in order to cope while feeling deep empathy at their brokenness. It was sweet. And it was sane. Sane seems stupid to us now. Unreachable. But it is and it is where we must go. Where we are desperate to go. Underneath the layers of frozen, of fleeing, of fighting, of fawning, out the other side.

Photo by Matheus Viana on Pexels.com

Anarchism isn’t what you think it is

March 10, 2021

Blame Johnny Rotten (who by the way, was never really an anarchist – he only needed a rhyme for “antichrist” in that song), but lots of folks still think anarchy is just young people wantonly smashing public property. Like it’s some kind of macho Project Mayhem, from Fight Club, with no plan and no limits.

But at its heart, Anarchism is almost the exact opposite: it grew out of the radical pacifism of the Quakers. And its roots trace back to before ancient Greece.

During Occupy Wall Street, the late David Graeber was in heavy demand at Zuccotti Park as anarchism’s resident demystifier. Tour guide for the anarcho-curious. The short man in the long scarf was no hippie malcontent; he was an anthropologist who taught at the London School of Economics.

Look around, he’d say. See what’s going on here? The free food and shelter and medical aid; the wifi and lending library and daily teach-ins and thoroughly decent coffee — this sustainable and vibrant way to live? This all sprung up “horizontally.” Every decision made only after every voice was heard. No leaders. Government by consensus. Everyone gets a go. A self-reinforcing ecology of respect. It’s not perfect but it’s holding together pretty well. (David didn’t mention the bag containing close to a million dollars in cash stashed under one of the desks. People kept giving us money. No one saw any reason to take it to a bank.)

“You’d be surprised how much you yourself are basically an anarchist right now,” he’d tell people.

Take this quiz:

“If there’s a line to get on a crowded bus, do you wait your turn and refrain from elbowing your way past others even in the absence of police? If you answered ‘yes,’ then you have been acting like an anarchist!

“People don’t need to be threatened with force or fines or jail time to get them to do the right thing,” he’d continue. “We can organize ourselves and police ourselves. In fact, that’s the only way it can happen with respect and dignity maintained.”

Dignity definitely does not hold in a system that corners people like rats with massive consumer debt that strips them of power and saddles them with shame.

Anarchy is about honoring your “desire lines”

In most parks of any size you’ll find two kinds of paths — the formal kind, paved with brick or concrete, and the informal kind, made by people walking over the grass. These paths aren’t straight. They go where they go. They’re created by no one’s executive decision. Instead, they arise one choice at a time.

Urban planners call these DIY routes “desire lines.” Or sometimes “pirate paths.”

Anarchy isn’t about taking a sledgehammer to the sidewalks the state builds for you. It’s about ignoring bureaucratic grids and choosing your own way, along your own desire lines.

Anarchism may be humanity’s next evolutionary step

Anarchism isn’t some primitive stage people pass through, some hippie way-station on the way to the more civilized arrivals gate of neoclassical economics. It’s neoclassical economics that’s the dinosaur. It’s rational self-interest that you grow out of – along with bongs, giant woofers and Ayn Rand.

Anarchism is “mutual support, mutual aid, and mutual defense.” So said Peter Kropotkin, zoologist and philosopher. He spent five years in Siberia making field notes, like Darwin in the Galapagos. He noticed there was another story going on, parallel to the dog-eat-dog business that capitalism adopted as its master narrative.

“Sociability is as much a law of nature as mutual struggle.” Organisms tend to live longer when they co-operate. It’s just as much in us to care as to kill. Once you really grok that, it’s hard to dismiss co-operation as a strategy worth trying. The only thing that stops us is our own cynicism.

If you really want to understand anarchism, look at a little kid

“Every society needs a barefoot Socrates to keep it honest,” says Gareth Matthews. That tiny philosopher was you and me, once. All children are anarchists — asking rude questions and speaking truth to power and using the wrong fork. And sometimes frying ants on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass, because life’s an ongoing experiment with no interference from the ethics board. But then, bit by bit, that kick-the-tires spirit gets knocked out of us. We grow into adults, losing much of our spontaneous and authentic selves along the way.

And then we spend the rest of our lives trying to get it back.

Anarchism keeps popping up everywhere

When George Orwell landed in Barcelona in December of 1936, he found the city in the grip of something totally new. The Catalonian revolutionaries had gained control and a transformation was happening. Factories and farms were being run by workers’ collectives. The red-and-black flags of the anarchists hung from the bigger buildings.

Orwell didn’t know what the city had felt like before but he described what it felt like now.

“Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said ‘Señor’ or ‘Don’ or even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ or ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos días’….

“Human beings were trying to behave as human beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine.”

Not everything about this was commendable, and the experiment was over by the spring of ‘39 when Franco won the war. But enough of a glimpse of an alternative was revealed here, of another way to be, that the feeling was held and carried and tended, like a little ember, to be revived on the streets of Paris in May of 1968.

There, starting on the Left Bank and rolling outward in waves, life became art. People broke from their routines and did risky, wild things. The Situationists channeled the spirit of anarchy into a kind of lifestyle. There should be switches on street lamps, they said, so lighting would be under public control. And maybe we level some churches to create places for children to play. They promoted a “life of permanent novelty” — a world of pleasure to win and “nothing to lose but boredom.”

The extremes of the human psyche, the highs and the lows: that is anarchy. But it means you get the whole package, from euphoria to fury. We get pissed off: that’s part of the deal of being human. Sometimes you simply have to make “necessary trouble,” as John Lewis put it. Sometimes it’s the only way to get unjust laws overturned.

And sometimes things become an unholy mess.

In Portland, police didn’t exactly know who they were dealing with in the black bloc as the race riots turned parts of downtown into a war zone. Who was under those balaclavas? Could have been an antifa. Could have been one of the wrongway antifas who smashed the windows of mostly blackowned businesses along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and toppled the statue of Lincoln. It probably wasn’t one of the intellectual lefties, Proudhon in their backpacks, who’d gathered in Peninsula Park (“Come for the anarchism, stay for the soup”).

Anarchy is a big tent, and no one’s checking ID at the door. That is the story of every revolution.

Now’s the time.

Each time anarchists have a go at seizing a historical moment, they work a few more bugs out. And get better at recognizing when the time is ripe.

It’s never been riper than now. The conditions are in place: Obscene discrepancies between rich and poor. Multiple social movements converging. The afterimage of a proto-fascist in the White House.

Where fascism grows, anarchism follows it like a shadow.

Anarchism isn’t something you are. It’s something you do — a way to connect and live in the tumultuous times ahead.

When the news broke in September that David had died, suddenly died at age 59, people went online. A spontaneous tribute took shape. A two-hour celebration of David’s life at – where else? – Zuccotti Park.

People wore costumes and beat drums and Reverend Billy of the Church of Stop Shopping led a singalong. Some of these folks had been with David in Washington, D.C. a few months earlier when police arrested and locked down hundreds of activists on the street – and David responded by having pizza delivered. Emma Goldman and Guy Debord and Raoul Vaneigem would have been there if they could. It was a demonstration, for sure.

A demonstration of what freedom actually looks like.

— Harry Flood

I consider Anarchism the most beautiful and practical philosophy that has yet been thought of in its application to individual expression and the relation it establishes between the individual and society. Moreover, I am certain that Anarchism is too vital and too close to human nature to ever die. It is my conviction that dictatorship, whether to the right or to the left, can never work — that it never has worked, and that time will prove this again, as it has been proved before. Considered from this point, a recrudescence of Anarchist ideas in the near future is very probably. When this occurs and takes effect, I believe that humanity will at last leave the maze in which it is now lost and will start on the path to sane living and regeneration through freedom.

— Emma Goldman

The Afterparty

When Janis opens her eyes, the cold grass under her feet is the first thing she feels and the tree is the first thing she sees. The big gum tree which she named with her own name, which is the name Janis, ‘cos it’s what feels most like herself when she puts her hand flat on its bark and feels its hum.

The way she first opens her eyes from sleep and doesn’t even know what she’s looking at – she reckons maybe this is what Bertie is like when he stares at a piece of light on the wall. It’s a bit scary sometimes waking up and looking at things that are like big fat gobbledegook, like the time she woke up staring at the picture on the cereal box in the pantry and somehow it looked like a scary monster until it shrunk down to being a dumb old box of cereal again with a stupid illustration of a dumb cartoon man made out of cereal.

The next thing she sees when she wakes up is the chairs from her party that they hired from the man with the teeth. The chairs look smaller in the darklight than they did in the lightlight. Maybe they are secretly baby chairs who play in the darklight and then, when the sun comes up, they pop up to adult size to be boring. It would be cool if in the darklight they not only shrunk but also grew wings like in that old book Nanny read to her. Then she could go on adventures while everyone is asleep and not tell anyone.

Darklight is weird, ‘cos other things are looking bigger, like Janis. Her trunk and leaves, the shapes of the chairs and the grass that they water with grey water, none of them have the colours they have in the lightlight except for Janis’s trunk, which is grey in the darklight as well as the lightlight. Tonight, the green grass is joining in playing at being grey too. It’s all silvery (which is another type of grey), and it’s shining from the moon lighting up the frost.

Before, in the lightlight when it was her party, she sat under Janis by herself for a bit to eat her cake, ‘cos too many people were talking at once. That chair is now facing away looking at the dairy paddock. Shes got a name for the paddock too. It’s Tor. But that bit of information is just between her and the paddock.

There’s another chair under Janis that Daddy sat on when he saw her sitting under Janis eating cake, and then he came and sat under Janis too and ate his own piece of cake. The cake was chocolate with cream and chocolate icing. A bit of cake fell on Daddy’s chest, and he lowered his head like a cow and reached out his tongue like a goanna, and darted the piece into his mouth. Except Daddy’s tongue isn’t forked.

Goannas don’t live in other countries, only in Australia. Gum trees live in other countries though, like California, ‘cos people liked them and put them on boats to the other side of the world. Here, in the southern hemisphere where Janis lives and Janis also lives, the sun tilts to the north in winter, like in approximately three months. In the northern hemisphere the sun tilts to the south in winter. Janis learned all this from looking at stuff on the internet.

The moon’s big and fat in the sky, which is blue in the lightlight but is usually darklight black except when that fat moon shines so she can see fog hanging in the air. The fog is sort of the same but different from the frost that’s freezing up her foots and which she reckons she could hear scrunching under her feet if she bent her head right to the ground. She tries it out, but she can’t hear anything. That doesn’t mean it’s not happening though. Maybe it’s just too quiet to hear, the way like maybe she could hear trees speak in Tree if she had mega ears, like the amplifiers at the concert she went to with Daddy.

When Janis opened her eyes and saw those shapes that ended up being Janis and grass and chairs, it felt like they were written in a different language, like Indonesian. Her dreams feel like a different language too. There have been many languages going on tonight, one after the other, just in the space of an hour. First she was dreaming, then she woke up and couldn’t work out what things were, then she worked out that she was in the darklight and that’s another different language. In the darklight, she can read things that the lightlight hides.

Janis isn’t sure she’s going to be able to go back to sleep now she’s been in so many different languages. That means she’ll be tired for school and she’ll be in the behaviour where she’s losing it, and Mummy will sigh. But that’s later. This Is Now.

The cold’s stealing up her legs like in that movie when winter came. Janis is glad she sleepwalked in her nightgown ‘cos it’s long, billowy and white. It makes her feel like she’s a girl living in the 19th century (which was actually the 1800s, like how now is the 21st century even though it’s the 2000s).

Her nightgown makes her feel like she’s that girl in The Secret Garden, which she and Nanny read when Nanny stayed at Christmastime. And then Nanny made her this nightgown – she whipped it up – and it’s much better to be wearing than pyjamas when she wakes up sleepwalking in the darklight and the moon’s shining and everyone’s inside sleeping in their separate beds. Except Mum and Dad, ’cause they sleep in a bed together, which is called queen size.

You’re a funny little thing, Nanny had said in her warm voice when Janis said she wanted a nightgown like Mary in The Secret Garden, but Janis wasn’t sure what was funny about that.

Now her feet are getting very cold. She knows Tor is ahead of her in the dark, with his buildings that are for the cows, but he’s too far away to see. There could be yukky things in the dark beyond the moonlight, but it doesn’t feel like it. Maybe ghosts, but they can’t hurt her, only scare her; and she could pretend she’s a ghost in her nightgown and scare them back.

If she turns her head to the right there’ll be the clump of trees standing alongside the driveway, and then the chia paddock, and there’ll be lots of places for a bad man to hide to come and stab her even on a moonlight night, but Janis doesn’t really think anyone’s there ‘cos all she can feel are trees and driveway and chia bushes, and foxes and roos and stuff. Maybe some of the Other Ones are there, but they’re ghosts and none of them will hurt her, even though they’re sad and angry ‘cos they died bad.

Janis yawns loudly with her mouth but not her voice ‘cos she doesnt want Mummy and Daddy to hear her and tell her to go back to bed. Although when she thinks about it, bed seems like a nice place to be, with socks in her drawer for her feet and her doona warm. And she needs a wee. She could wee outside, like she does sometimes when she doesn’t want to stop playing, when nobody will see her and yell at her to use the toilet like a civilised person. But it’s not weeing-outside weather like in summer. If she did wee outside now it might run down her leg, or go on her nightgown, and the thought of both makes her teeth chatter.

Yesterday Janis said something about going for a wee-wee to Mummy which was a baby language joke, but Mummy just said she is too old to talk like that now because boring. Adults don’t like talking about wee and poo, even though they do both, even Beyonce and the Queen.

This now is like her darklight birthday party. This is her birthday with herself even though its past midnight and not really her birthday anymore. At her party yesterday a man put his hand underneath a big piece of material and fiddled around and when he pulled the material away the big round ball that looked like a marble had disappeared. It was cool ‘cos the ball was heavy and there wasn’t any way he could hide it up his sleeve, but Janis knew that there was some simple explanation. ‘Cos it wasn’t really magic, it was just tricks.

Janis thinks when she is an adult who lives in her own house and washes her own clothes that she’ll have two birthday parties and both will be in the darklight. The first one she will only invite herself, on the day that she was born. Then she will have a party where six people come. It will start at midnight, and be on a full moon, and will be lit only by birthday cake candles and darklight.

There’s a faint tinge to the edges of the sky, suggesting something good might be on Cartoon Network in an hour. Which is fun to think of but sad too ‘cos she’s tired. And it means the darklight’s going away for maybe 10 hours and the lightlight’s coming, where it’s too busy and noisy and there’s too many requests and too much to do and less to see that’s really interesting.

But the darklight will come around again. Which is something to do with living on a big ball that spins around. One of its sides is light when the other is dark, and then it swaps around, giving everyone a rest. The big ball sits out in the middle of nothing, balancing on air, twirling.

Mummy whispered to her, when they were talking about it one night when Janis couldn’t sleep, and Mummy’s belly was so fat that it looked like an earth. Mummy whispered that she finds it a bit scary how the earth ball twirls around in the middle of nowhere.

She held Mummy’s hand to try to show her that it was okay. Even really cool if you thought about it long enough. Mummy hugged her head and kissed the top of it where her part is. You’re a funny little thing, Mummy had whispered into the dark, with her belly full of Bertie before he came out. Which is exactly what Nanny said to her at Christmas. Janis realises, suddenly, that Nanny was Mummy’s mummy when she was a little girl like Janis is now. And maybe Mummy learned to say that, which Daddy said is called a phrase. Maybe Mummy learned it from her mummy.

And if Mummy learned it from her mummy, who is Nanny, then maybe one day, when Janis has grown up and makes her own spaghetti bolognaise and has a man living in her house and they sleep in a queen size bed, maybe they will have a baby and Janis will find herself saying, You’re a funny little thing one day. And then it will be what her teacher said is a tradition.

She’s not sure though that she wants to grow up and have a man in her queen size bed and have babies come out of her body ‘cos that all seems a bit weird and maybe she will just have three dogs instead and a man who lives in a different house.

But it’s hard to know what she’ll want to do when she’s grown up with boobs and like the hair Mummy has. If her body is so different she might want to put a baby in there, like the way she likes tomato now and when she was three it made her want to puke up her guts. Maybe she’ll have three dogs and three babies ‘cos she’ll be a grown up lady and not feel icky about people coming out of her noonie. And her dogs can have babies, and her babies can look after the dog babies, which are called puppies.

Janis smiles into the moonlit dark going pink at the edges. The dark can always be counted on to throw light on things.

© 2021 Sue Stevenson

I Feel Numb

Don’t move
Don’t talk out-a time
Don’t think
Don’t worry, everything’s just fine
Just fine

Don’t grab
Don’t clutch
Don’t hope for too much
Don’t breathe
Don’t achieve
Don’t grieve without leave

Don’t check, just balance on the fence
Don’t answer
Don’t ask
Don’t try and make sense

Don’t whisper
Don’t talk
Don’t run if you can walk
Don’t cheat, compete
Don’t miss the one beat

Don’t travel by train
Don’t eat
Don’t spill
Don’t piss in the drain
Don’t make a will

Don’t fill out any forms
Don’t compensate
Don’t cower
Don’t crawl
Don’t come around late
Don’t hover at the gate

Don’t take it on board
Don’t fall on your sword
Just play another chord
If you feel you’re getting bored

I feel numb
I feel numb
Too much is not enough

Don’t change your brand
Gimme what you got
Don’t listen to the band
Don’t gape
Gimme what I don’t get
Don’t ape
Don’t change your shape
Gimme some more
Have another grape
Too much is not enough
I feel numb

Gimme some more
A piece of me, baby
I feel numb

Don’t plead
Don’t bridle
Don’t shackle
Don’t grind
Gimme some more
Don’t curve
Don’t swerve
I feel numb
Lie, die, serve
Gimme some more
I feel numb
Don’t theorize, realise, polarise
I feel numb
Chance, dance, dismiss, apologise
Gimme some more
Too much is not enough

Don’t spy
Don’t lie
Don’t try
Imply
Detain
Explain
Start again
I feel numb
I feel numb

Don’t triumph
Don’t coax
Don’t cling
Don’t hoax
Don’t freak
Peak
Don’t leak
I feel numb
Don’t speak

Don’t project
Don’t connect
Protect
Don’t expect
Suggest

Don’t project
Don’t connect
Protect
Don’t expect
Suggest
I feel numb

Don’t struggle
Don’t jerk
Don’t collar
Don’t work
Don’t wish
Don’t fish
Don’t teach
Don’t reach
Too much is not enough

Don’t borrow
Don’t break
Don’t fence
Don’t steal
Don’t pass
Don’t press
Don’t try
Don’t feel
I feel numb

Don’t touch
Don’t dive
Don’t suffer
Don’t rhyme
Don’t fantasize
Don’t rise
Don’t lie
I feel numb

Don’t project
Don’t connect
Protect
I feel numb
Don’t expect
Suggest

Don’t project
Don’t connect
Protect
I feel numb
Don’t expect
Suggest
I feel numb

The Magic Corvid Sausage Factory

Victoria has just come out a five-day lockdown, in the middle of summer, based on 13 positive results to a test that was never designed to be a diagnostic. (Apologies for linking to The Guardian, which used up Julian Assange for clicks then threw him under a bus for the establishment, but I’m lazy).

This lockdown would have been considered some kind of insanity before last year. But sshhh, ignore that thought if it bubbles up to a conscious level. Thoughts that were acceptable for you to have in 2019 are not so in 2021, along with a public health policy built up over 100 years and such general consensus as herd immunity. The science, if you’ve been taking notice, has been constantly changing since last March. Which is fine, ’cause that’s what science does. It’s just weird how all of the science now bends towards totalitarian outcomes and profits for the obesely wealthy. But oh well. Who are you, a lowly, pathetic non-expert, to question a situation that looks totally like some end-stage capitalism virus has had a PR consultancy attached to it round about April 2020 in order for the billionaire class to gain a $1 trillion profit and governments round the world to go draconian with the overwhelming consent of their liberal classes? What do you know? Sshhh.

Not one of the news services in this country reported that what we locked down over are positive PCR tests. I’m not sure how many Australians understand the difference but the media won’t be any help in increasing their knowledge. They will continue on as they started, reporting test results as absolute, unquestionable, undisputed positive covid-19 infections. Which they may be. Or they may not be. But it has been a year now, and the narrative of PCR=positive is so firmly entrenched that I can’t even see how it is going to start to be unravelled. The majority of people appear to believe that there are actually 13 cases of covid-19 infection in Melbourne.

Covid-19 is now a kind of sausage factory. A magic sausage factory, where sausages can be manufactured out of the air and no one will ever know.

At one end of the factory, you have the test which gives you the number of coronavirus cases swirling in your vicinity. This is the PCR test. It tested a pawpaw, a goat, and a quail positive to covid-19 in Tanzania, after its president secretly had some tests conducted at the national laboratory. A Portuguese court ruled it as unreliable and quarantining on its results as unlawful. Its use created a false outbreak of whooping cough in 2006: “Now, as they look back on the episode, epidemiologists and infectious disease specialists say the problem was that they placed too much faith in a quick and highly sensitive molecular test that led them astray.” Its creator stated it was never meant to be a diagnostic, which is probably because it can diagnose as active infections that were over inactive months ago. It can give false positives, diagnosing people who are well as infected. It misdiagnoses other things as covid-19: when you look at graphs they indicate that the flu has completely disappeared. Some people suggest that it’s because of our increased sanitation practices and distancing that the flu has been eradicated for the first time in history, but there is a more logical suggestion available than that.

Dan Andrews likes press conferences. Just don’t expect him to call one to announce that the one thing that frames the scale of the pandemic is unable to fulfil the role asked of it. Don’t hold your breath for that kind of press conference, the kind that is designed to help a citizen accurately assess the risk of a virus that, when you look at a five-year graph of worldwide deaths, hardly even registers.

In terms of sausage production, this is an excellent beginning. It means that there are vast numbers of sausages to be had, now that the ongoing flu market has been absorbed into covid , and for as long into the future as needed, in order to vaccinate the whole world.

(Don’t forget the fruit and veggies).

At the other end of the factory’s production process is those who die from covid-19. There are, apparently, many hundreds of thousands of them worldwide. However, the ways deaths have been measured from the beginning is the other part of the covid-19 production process that gives it such bang for its buck. Deaths aren’t numbered simply as those who died from covid-19 alone. They also include those who died with covid. Which is the vast, vast majority of people dying.

How does that play out on the ground? You can, say, have something else. Heart disease, say. You have a PCR test while in hospital with the disease that is actually killing you. The test comes back positive. You die two weeks later. Your death will be labelled a covid-19 death.

Do I believe there is a virus getting around called covid-19? Yes (although even here there’s conjecture about whether it’s even been sequenced or not). Do I believe it should be shutting down the world? Going on its IFR (the rate at which it kills people): no. Do I believe a narrative has grown up around this virus? Yes. Do I think it’s a manipulation of the data in order for some profiteering to be had? Sure, though I know it sounds paranoid.

In the UK alone, PCR testing is a £100 billion market. Maybe that’s why the WHO, when it reconfigured (again) it’s recommendations, declared that the PCR test is now NOT an effective diagnostic for asymptomatic cases, and advised that in that case there should be two tests administered. Not a different test, mind. Just double up.

Vaccinations are an even bigger market.

None of all of this makes much sense if you’re taking notice (much of the world, it appears, is willing to accept that their governments and their advisors are the most trustworthy institutions on the planet when it comes to covid-19. Don’t you find that odd? I mean, anyone who’s listening and who isn’t a blind stanner for their particular dessicated neoliberalised political party, knows that governments aren’t to be trusted. We know they don’t govern for us. We’ve seen it, over and over and over and over again. We’ve seen it in the way politicians who are calling for governments to govern for citizens instead of corporations are either absorbed into the machine in the case of Sanders or shat out as an anti-semite in the case of Corbyn.

The Corbyn smear is insanity for anyone who has a cursory understanding of who Jeremy Corbyn is and what he’s stood for for decades. But smears work. Just ask Julian Assange.

And fearmongering works too. It has people lining up to take experimental vaccines-that-aren’t-vaccines from big pharmaceutical companies with bad track records because a bunch of people in suits and a bunch of 22 year olds working for the corporatised media and a software designer who was in the right place at the right time tell you they’re fine.

None of this narrative makes much sense until you look at it as a class issue, which is what all those damn freaky socialists and anarchists banged on about until western labour parties turned neoliberal in the 1980s and inserted themselves and their professional managerial class in instead. This is the type of thing they were warning against: that our governmental leaders aren’t our leaders. That we are living in a corporatocracy that brings you the unified messages we’re now seeing; the insistence that you must panic; and the constantly changing recommendations over the last year that reek of the kinds of cognitive bias-producing scenarios that cause people to throw their hands up in the air and meekly let their governments tell them what to do.

What’s that? I sound paranoid? Well, sure. But you know what they say – that doesn’t mean they’re not out to get your cash and compliance. I sound like a conspiracy theoring right winger? Well, good on those people for speaking up, if that’s what they are. The left should hang it’s head. And anyway, whether all the people protesting the narrative are right wingers remains to be seen. The liberal class likes to label everyone who’s not a kowtower as a Nazi, after all. Questioners are a far bigger tent than the narrow minds of government believers can conceive, just like there are far more legitimate questions to be asked than those they follow insist you believe.

https://youtu.be/AkqW59U8KYw